Four Simple Words
by Captainohmycaptain
Summary: Tony's head was pounding even before he opened his eyes. He'd had hundreds of hangovers before, but god this was so much worse. He peeked his eyes open, squeezing them shut again instantly.


Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THESE CHARACTERS IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER, k? K.

Frostiron.

Warnings: Eventual sexual content, hangovers, panic attacks, anxiety issues, alcohol abuse, probably more...

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Tony's head was pounding even before he opened his eyes. He'd had hundreds of hangovers before, but _god_ this was so much worse. He peeked his eyes open, squeezing them shut again instantly.

"Jarvis, lights, please?" He croaked, wincing as his throat burned with every word. "Of course, sir." Tony tried opening his eyes again, more successful this time, but not by much. He groaned, rubbing the crusty stuff out of the corners of his eyes. Tony sat up, back screaming protest. He was in his lab, but why the hell was he on the ground? His knees popped as he stood, using a worktable for support. He glanced around himself, putting a hand on his forehead, rubbing at his temple even when he knew it would do absolutely no good. There was an almost-empty bottle of golden whiskey on his desk, turned over onto it's side, but thankfully, with the cap screwed on tight. "Jar, wh-what happened last night?" He asked, more than slightly fearing the answer. Whatever it had been, at least the Team hadn't seen or surely, he'd have woken up in his bed with some Tylenol on the nightstand. Despite how amazing two or ten of those painkillers sounded right now, he was glad they hadn't seen.

"Another panic attack, sir. You started drinking after it ended, and didn't stop until you fell unconscious. Might I suggest another diversion from the attacks, sir?" Jarvis had a chiding tone to his voice, and Tony was starting to wonder when his AI had grown a mind of his own. "Oh, shut up." He grumbled. His head was pounding full-force still, his half-assed temple massage doing no good whatsoever. It was starting to come back to him; Last night. It had been the second panic attack of the day, much worse than the first. Technically, he had pulled himself out of the attack just before it became a problem. Tony had almost been thankful that the alarm had blared, signaling the need for the Avengers. It gave him a good excuse to shove his anxiety aside for a while. Well, that had obviously backfired, if the double-powered attack meant anything. The drinking he remembered, too. It was a way to turn his mind off, to get away from the memories. Well, damn, he was about to swear off drinking forever just about now. He sighed, throat stinging with the rush of air. The dim overhead gave him enough light to stumble towards the bathroom.

And _goddamn_ the lights were too bright. He squinted at himself in the mirror. He looked like crap, unsurprisingly. His hair was limp, hanging down over his forehead, almost into his eyes, all mussed and ruffled. The bags under his eyes obvious and dark. The skin around his eyes was a raw, red, probably because he'd been itching at them during his panic attack. His eyes were blood-shot, his lips pale. He needed some water. He looked down at his hands as he fumbled to turn the sink on. He noticed the cut on his hand then. It was messy and had a bit of grease in it, obviously coming from him falling into one of his tools. Well, fuck. He groaned and let the cold water run over it, biting his lip cause _damnitalltohell _that stung. He washed the cut out with hand soap and found some gauze, wrapping it up tightly. With that dealt with, he moved onto bodily functions, then a shower.

The water was burning his skin red, but, hey, he thought of it as good practice for his inevitable eternity in Hell. Or Helheim. Or whatever. The afterlife had never really been something he liked thinking about. He shook his head, water flying off in every direction. The steam helped numb the sting of his throat. His coconut body wash was a pleasant smell, pushing the lingering taste of alcoholic vomit from his mind. When he stepped out, he grabbed a towel off the rack and rapidly dried himself, rushing through the motions.

"Time, Jarvis?" He questioned, swiftly pulling his old boxers back on.

"5:30 Am, sir." The self-intelligent system answered. Tony distantly wondered what he'd done to piss the machine off last night, promptly filing away a promise to upgrade Jarvis' circuit board to make up for it. He had plenty of time before any of the team would wake. He hurried, though, not wanting to risk any sightings. He padded barefoot up the stairs, coming up into the living room and rushing across the black floor. He made it to his room, shut the door, and sighed. His first instinct was to pull on his Black Sabbath tee, and favorite grey sweatshirt. Then sweatpants, definitely sweatpants.

After he was dressed, and had a couple painkillers in his systems, he collapsed onto his bed, burrowing under the sheets and comforters.

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Okay, so. Review please. Any feedback is good. Thanks for reading!


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